


The Dream of the Worm

by Sexsuna



Series: The Cocksucking Male Maid Saga [1]
Category: Dollis Marry, Jrock
Genre: Alien Parasite, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anal Sex, Closeted, Crossdressing, Group Sex, Japanese Band - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Parasites, Semen milkshake, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Slavery, Sexual conversion, Visual Kei, Vomit, Vomit enema, cocksucking, enema, homofication, semen drinking, sperm drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 18:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2437928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sexsuna/pseuds/Sexsuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iori always felt the oppressive demands of society weigh down upon his shoulders. The pressure to have a girlfriend, and the prospect of future children, and he tried to go with the flow and keep holed up within his true urges... Until that day, when during a toilet emergency he runs into a particular establishment called the Cocksucking Male Maids Café by accident, and meets the proprietor, Mr. Kisaragi. Though resisting at first - he soon learns things about himself he never was able to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dream of the Worm

 

**1**

  
It had been a disaster. From beginning to end. Her puffy chins and those revolting even rows of teeth, _how_ it reviled him. And the perfume, it reeked, reeked like nothing he had ever felt before. It was as if with said perfume she had tried to hide or purge some pungent natural odour she found impossible to clean away. Iori had excused himself from the table and said he had to hurry home, for he was feeling sick to the stomach. Her eyes seemed understanding when he hurried out, big and dreamy, understanding but nevertheless saddened, like a puppy left alone in the rain one too many times. He hoped she would not call again, and he would have to have a serious discussion with his sister about her dating advice and match-ups; they never led to anything good.  
  
Halfway to the railway station he had been besieged by a serious cramp in his gut. A vicious contraction that made him bend over suddenly and put his hand over his belly. He lambasted himself; this was _divine retribution_ for faking that toilet emergency as a reason to leave. With his inner eye, he saw the woman laughing as she put something in his drink once she noticed his reluctance to continue the date, saw her laughing and laughing insanely, pointing her ragged finger at him in his unfortunate situation. He looked around and saw that he was in the red light district, whorehouses and love-hotels abounded throughout the alley he was hurrying down with flashing colourful neon signs and price lists and staff pictures. Maybe he would manage to get to the railway station, he thought hopefully, but a sudden wet fart murdered this thought, and he realised he was done for if he did not find a toilet right away.  
  
Realising this he took onto another narrow alley and swung down towards the first open door he spotted. This in turn brought him down a dark dank corridor ending in a door, and towards this he hurried; he could feel the pressure building up; he could feel the shifts of the brown pregnancy, twisting and kicking and the bubbling and gurgling of some obnoxious gases. He opened the door, and had it been locked he would have pulled his black trousers down right there and just let go; well inside, it was a bright fine place, much more respectable than he had ever hoped from this part of town. Wooden furniture and a sparkling clean counter where some dishes rested behind Plexiglass doors behind which stood an employee he had no time to inspect further, everything bathing in a warm yellow-tinged light, and he spotted quickly the two doors to the bathroom, and towards this he set off. He did not even notice the peculiar fact that there was no bathroom for women; both were for men.  
  
He was lucky, too, for it was a clean and pleasant bathroom he had entered, and he took the first door he could see, straight on, and hurried in, unbuttoned his trousers and sat down, breathing out, content for once. Eventually the unpleasant climax arrived and for fifteen minutes (that seemed to Iori more like two hours), he could scarcely keep from crying as the burning river burst through the levies and soiled the unsuspecting china with its blasphemous mud deposits.  
  
Then it died down. Finally. But just as he was going to take a piece of paper and wipe, he heard something. He thought his arse might have become so numb from the torturous treatment that he could no longer feel the stuff coming out, but later he would realise that was not the case, for suddenly he felt an immense burning sensation followed by the most peculiar wetness that spread like alcohol through his body a warmth bizarre and inexplicable, and he thought at once he had been struck much more sick than first thought. He finally wiped and flushed – the toilet he peered back in had either been the scene of a marvellous post-modern artwork or some form of serious crime, he’d leave it up to the cleaning staff to decide – and thereupon hurried from the scene before anyone would connect the dots.  


 

**2**

  
There was no delight the equal of the vividly coloured head of a young man bobbing as it went down on him, such were the thoughts that ran through Seijyu’s head as he reclined on his chair and let the pleasing surroundings at the Cocksucking Male Maid’s Café calm his nerves. He peered into the ceiling as he travelled to the palace of innumerable delights, and as he approached the inevitable climax he flung his hand around a thick wisp of hair containing an entire rainbow’s spectrum; and the rainbow’s eyes they flinched and Seijyu finally ejaculated copiously in his mouth. The Rainbow got up from under the table where he had his place, and seemed to be on his way to go to the bathroom, mouthful of ejaculate and all, and Seijyu could not allow this. He grabbed hold of the Rainbow’s hand and dragged him down, and whispered gently in his ear for him to swallow, and added jokingly a short half-formed sentence of the bible saying that God does not like when seed is spilled for naught; and the Rainbow did as he wished, whereafter Seijyu kissed him lightly on those supple lips.  
  
The Rainbow left and with him the smell of sex and semen soon departed, and in thoughtful reminiscence of the past pleasures Seijyu ordered a cup of coffee and a sugary bun. Seijyu came here often, more often than he’d like to, he was a regular by now, but in his loneliness this was the only way to salvation, the only catharsis, and through this narrow cataract flowed his entire personality’s river in tranquil rainbow drips and dreamy wisps.  
  
After he had consumed the bun and coffee, he got up and walked out of the place. On his way he passed the respectable visage of Mr. Kisaragi, who he had come to understand was the main organiser of the pleasant and exotic excesses of the Cocksucking Male Maid’s Café. He had spoken to him one night, when to quell his sorrow he had come in after one or a few drinks too many and blathered inanely to no one at all his sordid life-story, at least that was what he had thought before Mr. Kisaragi had materialised from behind the serving bar with his teased deep-red hair and eyes deep and mysterious like olive oceans through which you can see the shallow reefs, little irregular colour specks like the veins in marble or the rays of the sun… he restrained his galloping thoughts. He had listened to his drunken banter until it was time to close, and followed Seijyu all the way out through that long dark corridor that lead to this here Promised Land.  
  
And now, there was that twitch, like Kisaragi wanted to hint at something, like he was saying ‘it will be all right, just you wait and see’, and although nothing was said, it was like this was still exchanged between them, a consciousness travelling through eyes and miens. Seijyu was tired after a hard day – where he read the announcements for the Hankyu Electric Railway out of the Umeda station offices – so thought no more of this exchange as he made his way out of the café and steered towards the Shin-Osaka station to catch the 21:15 express towards Himeji.  
  
On the train home there came to Seijyu unpleasant memories. Those big dark eyes, he might have thought of the expression ‘puppy eyes’ had he not had such a great loathing for what with folly was called _man’s best friend_ , and the smooth skin, oh, Iori, he thought; and just as bubbled up the uncomfortable sensations of unrequited love, there came the memories of those times he had tried to share with Iori the nature of his feelings, and how the other man had merely laughed or acted like he had not heard what was said. There had followed upon many such moment a statement by that oh-so-beautiful yet so tragically misguided and tasteless mouth that reviled him to no end; ecstatic speeches of sucking milk from fat bulbous breasts. Sufferers of Bubonic plague… his love of the vagina, that flesh wound, blood flowing in rivers sick and thick like syrup… when he got off the train at Sannomiya station, he felt nauseous.  


 

**3**

  
Turning around after closing the door to the toilet in a vain attempt to be stealthy about his unfortunate disaster-visit, Iori came face to face with a man handsome as few, who commanded an undeniable air of authority spawned from – where? He was not sure. He seemed to just have put on a pair of sunglasses, correcting them with one of his hands, pushing them up and down the ridge of his large but by no means objectionable nose.  
Iori was ready to ignore him, but the red-haired man took a steady grip of his arm and stopped him. He seemed a lot stronger than he had been led to believe from his thin physique.   
  
“Excuse me”, said the man, and his grip of Iori’s arm was quite obviously not going to relax. “My name is Takashi Kisaragi, and I own this place.”  
Iori rolled his eyes. Maybe he was going to accuse him of the accident in the bathroom… if he knew about it. Iori might have thought of there being cameras in there – and he would have been right – but in the rush of the moment he thought no further than with embarrassment a quick contemplation that maybe his bowel movement had been so loud that this handsome manager here had overheard. He blushed.  
  
“Come sit down with me, it’s an important matter”, he continued, and Iori felt that it was best to just let him have his way. Whatever this important matter was, Iori was sure it was no more important than his angry phone call to his three years younger sister, with whom he was still in a fit of rage for arranging that abysmal date from which he had escaped. But somehow the anger seemed to go down like magma dropping in the vent of a volcano, as the pressure of the underworld falls; and just like that his mood went through a strange metamorphosis, whereupon he suddenly felt content with the situation. Was it the pleasant illumination, the warmth of those Jupiter-shaped lamps in the ceiling? Must be, he thought, and followed Mr. Kisaragi to a table, where the latter moved for him to sit down. Himself, he walked off, and seemed to speak to some staff through a door, before he resumed and sat down.  
  
“Ordered a special for us”, he said. “Now, let us talk.”  
  
“About what? I don’t even know who you are, apart from your name, and I have no idea what kind of establishment you run.”  
  
“It was quite rude to do what you did to the porcelain throne in there. What do you think the cleaning personnel will think?”  
“Are you trying to guilt me into something?”  
  
“Fear not”, said Mr. Kisaragi, “That is not my intention. I merely wondered – do you feel something strange right now?”  
  
“How you mean?”  
  
“Is something different?”  
  
His arse felt a bit sore, that was one thing. But he would not blurt that out here. There was the mood swing… and he was thirsty; though that was hardly out of the ordinary, and he hadn’t had much of anything to drink apart from half a glass of wine at the restaurant with that horrid _thing_. “Not really”, he said. Mr. Kisaragi dissected his eyes intently. The delay, Iori thought, surely the delay there must have given him some obscene ideas… _what have I gotten myself into…_  
  
“Very well, then”, Kisaragi said. “Ah, here come our specials.”  
  
A cute young girl with (disappointingly, his mind seemed to add, but the reflection was not an honest one) small breasts – completely flat in fact – came in, carrying with her a plate upon which stood three glasses of what Iori took to be milk or milkshakes. One of those would sit well, he thought.  
  
After the glasses had been put down on the table before them, the woman remained standing next to Mr. Kisaragi, awaiting further orders, as it seemed. Not a peep came from her. He could scarcely hear her breathe. Her clothes where some sort of plastic-looking outfit that wrapped tightly her features, a sharp yellow colour on a pleated skirt, like a fetish-maid uniform. It was exquisite, though the lack of a sensual breast pair forming a good figure was a bad thing, definitely, not all that hot after all…  
  
“What is your name?” Mr. Kisaragi asked him, and he turned his eyes back to those dark sunglasses.  
  
“Iori”, he replied, voice indifferent.  
  
“Say, Iori, do you fancy women or men?”  
  
Iori recoiled, shrugged his shoulders and blushed. “What?” he exclaimed.  
  
“I asked you what your sexual orientation is.”  
  
“Isn’t that kind of… a private thing?”  
  
“Don’t be shy; I’m not here to judge you or anything.” He grimaced, revealing a jaw full of disordered giant teeth. Rabbit teeth.  
  
“I like women. Big tits. Fat lips. Like when they have big arses, that’s good too.”  
  
“That so? Are you really sure? That sounds kind of like a farcical reply, I must say.”  
  
“What? You questioning my sexuality? What is this? Who you think you are, some _Kempei_?”  
  
Kisaragi leaned backwards and sighed deeply. “I assure you”, he said, “I mean no harm or offence. I was simply curious as to why your answer was—” Iori frowned and Kisaragi cut it short, “Let’s drink, at least.”  
  
“What’s in it?”  
  
“Milkshake. Regular milkshake. They have different taste, and I’m not sure which is which… do you remember Reijyu?” He looked at the girl. She shook her head. “Oh, well, take whichever one you want.”  
  
Iori grabbed the one in the middle and let his nose take in the olfactory sensations; it seemed pleasant, what was that taste? He was not sure. Sipped a bit and came to the realisation that, whatever taste it was, it was delicious. He downed it all so fast he was sure he would soon have to entertain a bathroom visit once more.  
  
“That was fast,” Kisaragi said. “Did you like it?”  
  
“Yes. It was great. Is there more? I want more. What flavour was it?”  
  
“Banana.”  
  
“Really? I’d have thought I’d recognise it…”  
  
“Not your normal banana, I wouldn’t say.”  
  
“Different type? But – is there more?”  
  
“Let us return for a while to the question of your sexual orientation.”  
  
“What?” Desperation was on Iori’s face. Was it the thirst? He really wanted more. The urge was bizarre and uncanny, unlike anything he could ever recall. He wanted to swim in the milkshake. Warm milkshake. Wanted to see it  
  
everywhere, glaciers coating the world. “I like women, okay?”  
  
“How do your dates usually play out?”  
  
“Fine… I’d say they work out perfectly fine.”  
  
“Don’t lie to me now.”  
  
“Fine, fuck those whores. I don’t know why I put up with them. Sitting there with their mobile phones, talking shit to their friends, wanting me to share their emotional moments… fuck if I know why I put up with—” He stopped suddenly, not realising what he had been blathering or why it was. Did he really say what he just thought he had said? Was that him speaking? He loved women. Big tits and shake that arse. A sudden image appeared in his head – a cut through an abdomen, a vagina, little teeth and tentacles pale and semi-transparent, vibrating, and out of the infinite folds of that fleshy sack came a claw. He found himself almost retching.  
  
“Are you all right?” Mr. Kisaragi said, but that, Iori was sure, was not concern upon his face. It was a blasphemous glee, a satisfied smirk.  
  
“What have you done to me?” Iori asked as he tried to gather himself.  
  
“Me? I have done nothing. There’s something inside you that has been set free by a friend of ours. When you are ready, perhaps I will share more details of this friend of ours. Oh, and by the way—“  
  
“Sick fuck!”  
  
“What you drank—“  
  
“No, God, no, you can’t be fucking serious, I’m going to be sick.”  
  
“That’s right; you knew what it was all along. It was semen. Had twelve men work that drink up for you; they’re watching this via CCTV.”  
  
Iori moved backwards on his chair, rose up, and then – Kisaragi lifted the skirt on the woman. For a while that image appeared again – this time as a rotten swollen knife wound on a brown-black cadaver in a hospital morgue like a clip from a police drama – but what he saw was not that. The woman was not a woman at all – it was a man! An erect cock was all he could see there, pointing upwards in proud erection, its length glistening reflectively; his eyes were transfixed until with a nonchalant brush Mr. Kisaragi had covered it up again with the skirt.  
  
“You look like you’ve learned the meaning of life.”  
  
Iori’s mouth was open and he breathed heavily, and hungrily – or perhaps thirstily was a preferable expression – he reached for the skirt of the cute thing, to reveal anew that magnificent magnanimous member; but his hand was, just as it gripped the smooth latex, hit by a brush of Mr. Kisaragi’s hand. He drew it back, and Mr. Kisaragi looked upon him with a stern stare.  
  
“No touching! Sit down!”  
  
He did. Fiddled with his hands to keep them occupied, afraid he would soon start touching himself. He was hard already, that was sure, a painful throbbing erection.  
  
“I’m willing to offer you a job”, Kisaragi said, “where you can give in to the desires you have. I’ve known all along – I saw it when you came in here in a hurry. I could see it in your eyes, and I’m a good judge. I know what I’m looking for. It pays, too.”  
  
Iori struggled to think of anything but cocks, he saw an ocean-floor in prehistory where every single growth on the bottom was an erect penis. He might have laughed at the idea had he not been so aroused and – in heat was the expression that came to him from the demented clouds of sexual deprivation. All the stereotypical nonsense, the women he had never cared for on any level, dated merely to conform to the standards of a profoundly sick society, to live up to the expectations that others had of him, all of that had fallen off like the peeling of a ripe banana.  
  
“Reijyu here,” Kisaragi said and flashed once more that beautiful well-shaped and energetic erection, “is a table boy. But we have enough of those already. We offer an assortment of services here, everything you can desire. You, my friend, will be working down in the dungeons.”  
 _  
The dungeons._

 

**4**

  
There was a hunger and thirst that rose and fell within him, and caused him to drool on and off as they walked down the dark concrete-walled basement corridor, having turned a sharp left after getting off the lifts. He realised the nature of his desires, and as such, Iori refused to heed their undeniable reality and command, now and then showing teeth and a contraction of his facial muscles as he tried to ignore it. Think of something else, he told himself, and tried to amuse himself with nonsensical agricultural scenery; a man on a tractor ploughing his fields next to a small village nestled betwixt a railway and a national road; a family getting out of their car at a forgotten rural filling station.  
  
They were underground – naturally, it was a basement – but somehow it felt more immense than that.  
  
“The lift only goes this far”, Mr. Kisaragi said as he led Iori down the corridor. “There are another two levels below this, accessible by stairs.” Iori turned around, and, indeed, next to the two lift doors there was another door which stood ajar, and in there was some grey steel railing visible; undoubtedly, that was where the stairs from the upper floors came down, and where they continued… below.  
  
The corridor was illuminated by fluorescent lighting in the ceiling, casting a pallid white light that made Iori recall for a while his long-forgotten school days, though soon even those memories were corrupted by sexual urges; school bathroom fellatio and gym hall; fucked face-down against a gymnastic mat containing the odours of stale sweat accumulated during the last fifteen years.  
  
Five doors opened up to the left, and five doors were on the right; and at the end of the corridor was another door; which seemed to be their current destination. One of the ten doors was ajar, and Iori could see that it was a thick padded affair, and from within emanated the noisy squishy sounds of what could only be copulation, half-suffocated demands for mercy soon silenced with more slapping; and just as they walked past, the door slammed shut. Ahead, Mr. Kisaragi tried the larger door with a golden key, opening in thereafter gently, letting Iori in before closing it after him.  
  
It was a shock to behold the room, for it was such a contrast to the barren cold concrete walls outside; the room bathed in warm light cast from a crystal chandelier and in the centre of the room stood a gigantic bed; on the walls to the sides were blue-doored lockers like a school changing room; and beside the bed two sets of coffee tables surrounded each by two sofas.  
  
“This is the break and staff room”, Kisaragi said, “as well as the changing room, as you can see.” A television set – one of those fancy flat-screens - was fixed to the wall next to the bed, faced by one further sofa; it shewed the ten-o-clock news on NHK-1.  
  
“Now, take off your clothes.”  
  
“What?” Iori said.  
  
“You don’t think you’ll be wearing that, right?” Kisaragi walked up to Iori and grabbed his old worn leather jacket with disgust, pulled some on the white T-shirt with NAGASHIMA SPA LAND written in blue across the breast and some low-quality artistic rendering of cartoon-roller coasters below; and then, he peered towards the ugly sport-sneakers and imitated a man about to vomit.  
  
“All goes off!” he demanded. “Off with the lot!”  
  
Iori began, taking off his black leather jacket (had some sports-team tripe logotype on one of the arms) and putting it on the floor, whereafter he started with his T-shirt; but the speed was not to Mr. Kisaragi’s liking, for he stopped him in-action and ripped his T-shirt apart at the middle and ripped it off.  
  
“There”, he said then, “that’s how you do it.”  
  
Iori’s upper body was now bare, and Kisaragi was not slow to unbutton his worn black jeans (Kisaragi wondered a bit if they were of the type you can buy with factory-made imitated wear; the thought made him shudder and work harder to get them off), and once they were unbuttoned, they dropped to the floor.  
  
Takashi Kisaragi recoiled in disgust as the green abomination of the underwear became revealed; yellow-green like some blasphemous upchuck or vile snot, and with some name on them, CALVIN KLEIN it said, whoever that dick was, he sure liked getting piss and shit on his name – perhaps that was, in a way, fitting; and angered by this revolting sight, Kisaragi tore them clean off.  
  
Iori shook a bit as they were torn off, but quickly managed to get a hold of himself; Mr. Kisaragi prodded with his closed fist Iori’s flaccid member a few times, which looked small and afraid of the world where it hung loose and flopping with every tremble of the (the host’s, he wanted to think) body. The penis looked somehow disappointed; oh well, thought Mr. Kisaragi, it will soon be up and running, so to say.  
  
Kisaragi led Iori backwards and sat him down upon the bed, and took off the ugly shoes and the trousers. Then he proceeded to put them in a pile and shoved them into a hole in the wall.  
  
“What do you do with my clothes?” Iori asked. “You can’t just take them and throw them away!”  
  
“Of course I can! Don’t worry, your awful clothes will never again be covering your body. We’ll burn them and let what is left of them wash out into the river.”  
  
Iori wanted to object, but sitting naked on the bed he felt oddly exposed, and was content with merely giving vent to his displeasure via a puppy-eyed pout. To give up his clothes was so uncomfortable, not because they were useful any more – torn to shreds they had more or less _lapsed like foam_ , but they offered comfort in this uncharted territory.

 

**5**

  
Mr. Kisaragi rummaged through one of the lockers and withdrew a blasphemous ball of clothes. “This,” he said then, “will be your new outfit. I’m sure you will find it to your liking, no matter that the folly of your self-repression will not allow you to admit this – at least for now.”  
  
Iori could see shining plastic and pleather; his mind refused to accept the reality of what he was asked to do. Memories and corrupt ideals instilled in him by his father; a bad role model if there ever was.  
  
“I’m not putting that on”, he said.  
  
“But my dear, you do not have a choice in the matter. You were destined to be here, to serve. It was no accident that you happened to run into our bathroom at the café. I know that you will tell yourself otherwise – but I know what is true even to you. I know what thoughts move in your head – your eyes are to me like windows to your soul. Now, put it on, or you never know what might happen.”  
  
Threats, so that’s what it had come down to? Iori buckled under the pressure; though somewhere deep down, he was not insulted and did not feel threatened; he only relished the thought of the threat so as to excuse himself following the orders. Truth was, he wanted to: _Mr. Kisaragi was right._  
  
With the ball of black clothes in his lap, Iori began to untangle the mess. There was some folded rectangle from which hung threads of lace, some sort of straps terminating in metal rings (how many of them? Two, he thought, not sure) and a pair of what seemed like gloves of black shiny latex; he saw a skirt, too, smooth to the touch and reflecting in its shiny material the lamp that hung above where he sat.  
  
“Stand up”, Kisaragi commanded. “I’ll assist you in… _donning the attire_.” Iori did as was said, even though standing up (naked and all) worsened his sense of exposure. Something else troubled him, too; he was finding the ordeal arousing, and the thirst came bubbling up once more; and Kisaragi saw, much to his delight, that he was now sporting a considerable erection.  
  
He picked up the straps with the metal rings and guided Iori’s arms through the right places; once through there was a strap resting on each shoulder, at the top of which was a joint with a second strap with buckles that went down the upper side of the arms. The thing had buckles at the back, which Kisaragi proceeded to tighten; at the front the metal ring came right in the middle of his chest; at the back, he felt the cold just betwixt his shoulder blades.  
  
Thereafter he put Iori’s arms through the latex arm-warmers, which terminated in a metal ring fastened around the middle finger; these in turn had a strap at the top which was fastened through a buckle to the extension from those over the shoulders; as this was done, Kisaragi unfolded the rectangle, and put it around Iori’s waist from behind. At the front it was open, and each side had a series of openings through which Kisaragi carefully threaded a lace that came with it; until it had zigzagged its way to the top, where it was tied together in a knot after being tightened (too much, Iori thought). Its length was such that it extended from just below his nipples (which were exposed just to the side of the upper harnesses across his chest) to some distance above the navel; exposed and naked.  
  
The treatment had made Iori’s erection even more aggressive, painful, even.  
To make matters worse, the next item was the skirt. Iori was told to sit down once more, and so he did; and Kisaragi put the skirt up along his legs and – it touched his penis! He quivered, whined, let out silly noises as Kisaragi fastened the belt around the skirt. It was short, awful short; so short in fact that it was just barely that his erection was able to be hidden underneath its pleated curtain.  
  
After that his legs were embraced by a pair of black nylon stockings, which were fastened by garters to some sort of internal belt that ran along the inside of the skirt’s waistband to keep the things in proper place.  
  
“Now, for the last piece”, Kisaragi said and walked once more to the locker wherein the current clothes had been retrieved, and returned carrying with him a pair of black boots, long and shiny with chunky heels and high platforms, and a thick leather collar from which hung at even intervals little metallic rings; and he put the latter down on the bed beside Iori, and focused on the former, unzipping and guiding Iori’s feet (Iori found himself dazed in a dreamy state of being, wondering if this was at all reality, and this made him complacent somehow; at least he thought this was why) into the shoes and zipping them up; they went well over the knees, nearly covering the nylon stockings entirely; after this was done, Kisaragi helped Iori to stand up and guided him off to a small door in the corner of the room which he had not seen before.  
  
Well there, the door swung open. It was a small bathroom – toilet and a washbasin – but the most surprising thing, which nearly stopped Iori’s heart – or so he thought, at least – was a full-wall mirror which showed his reflection. His cheeks looked pale, his eyes watery, and the clothes; the sight was… disgusting, was the word he wanted to use, but it was something his old self would have said, and merely for show; the fact was, he looked quite… sexy? Yes, sexy, that was the reality of it; his black hair hung well-washed and his lips sensual and full. That date wasn’t so bad, after all, an excuse as good as any to—  
  
Mr. Kisaragi came back, snuck up from behind, visible in the mirror: he put that collar he had seen before around his neck; sealed with a buckle; and then he proceeded to fasten a robust leathery rope to one of the rings in it. Then he admired the creation from behind, and Iori saw the lust glow sacrilegious and profane in the mirror.  
  
“What you think?” Kisaragi said.  
  
“I look like a faggot”, said Iori, his obscene tenacity once again surfacing.  
  
“But,” Mr. Kisaragi said in a tone that was serious and matter-of-fact; “my dearest Iori, you are, so to speak, a faggot.”  
  
And so it was.

 

**6**

  
Noises of something shifting inside of Iori’s stomach, like the growl of the starving, brought on the attention of Mr. Kisaragi. Iori gritted his teeth and held his right hand over his belly. “You’re starving”, Kisaragi said, seeming pleased with this notion.  
  
Iori said nothing.  
  
Kisaragi teased his hair into two bunches and fastened them with a hair-tie, brushed it up a bit to give it volume and looked at it with adoring eyes. “There,” he said, “you’re ready for the next step now”, and pulled on the leash for Iori to follow him out of the staff room. Kisaki held his leash tight and close by; turned around and locked the door after him. They went up to one of the doors on the left, the one closest to the left and the stairs – could he run for it? The rope which tied him was too strong, no doubt; and who knew what guards and blasphemies waited at the top of those flights of stairs? Those thoughts, vague and unformed, were banished completely by a resurgence of the empty feeling in his gut, likewise further up, in his stomach; thirst, hunger, all the same, he wanted to be filled, satisfied.  
  
Iori walked uneasily on the 20 cm heels; Kisaragi laughed at him. “You’ll get used to that in due time. Everyone does.”  
  
He opened the door; a thick heavy steel door that creaked obscenely as it opened. Inside the light was more pleasant than in the corridor; it was warm, reddish, and Iori was at that lead inside.  
  
“This here,” Kisaragi explained, “is the training room, where new recruits are taught the way of the Dress Code. Your guide and supervisor tonight will be Ayano”, Kisaragi’s hand pointed at a handsome young man with hair dyed a light blue, recently washed, smooth as silk and hanging freely; his face had soft features, a small jaw and eyes big and deceptively innocent. But this was where it was, and Iori knew there were perversions tumbling idly everywhere; you would not be here if this was not so. He was naked save a pair of pink boots with chunky heels reaching to his knees and a pair of latex stockings that reached almost all the way to the top of his thighs, and a pair of matching gloves. Apart from this, his body was bare.  
  
Behind Ayano stood three men with brawny bodies, uncanny wrinkles of impossible musculature, their faces covered by black leather masks, revealing only their eyes. Hungry eyes.  
  
“Hello, Mr. Kisaragi!”, Ayano said and waved his hand and squinted his eyes.  
  
“How are you tonight?” Kisaragi asked in reply and walked slowly towards him.  
  
“Waiting to have fun, of course!”  
  
“That’s the right and proper spirit,” Kisaragi said. “This is your toy for the night.”  
  
“Oh, he’s real cute, isn’t he? I like the bunches, and that outfit, I haven’t seen that one before.” While he spoke, he slowly stroked his erect cock and when he said ‘haven’t seen that one before’, he tilted his head and giggled.  
  
“Take good care of him, and make sure he gets good training”, Kisaragi said. “I don’t want to be disappointed, Ayano.”  
  
“I’ll try not to disappoint!” he said merrily.  
  
Kisaragi turned to Iori and pointed up at a camera in the ceiling. “I’ll be watching your progress. The turnaround here is considerable; most students don’t last very long. I hope you won’t disappoint me, either.” Without further ado Takashi Kisaragi left the room and locked the door behind him; and in the meantime Ayano had walked up to Iori and lifted his skirt. Iori turned his eyes away, but Ayano took a resolute grip of his chin and twisted it back so that their eyes met.  
  
“Don’t be shy”, Ayano said, “I know you like it. Cocks don’t lie.”  
  
As if to illustrate this, he lifted Iori’s skirt – already protruding considerable as it was – and tugged leisurely at Iori’s cock. Soon Ayano had added his own cock to the mix, holding the two together with his gloved hands, and stroking them both painfully slowly. Iori let out a strange squeak and gritted his teeth. Mere minutes later Iori’s breathing started to show a quicker pace, an approaching climax, and Ayano stopped what he was doing suddenly.  
  
“You can’t—” Iori whined between the gasps, “stop—now.”  
  
“I can stop whenever I want, honey,” Ayano said and leaned closer to Iori and gave him a passing kiss across his lips. He proceeded to move back towards the silent muscular men who had been watching the display intently from behind their masks. Their packages were hidden in bulging ugly black Speedos. Ayano seemed to whisper in the ears of one of them, and he quickly walked towards Iori; when he was right by, he proceeded to carefully guide Iori onto all fours, whereafter he flipped up the back of Iori’s skirt, so as to reveal his rear; and having done this he quite brutally inserted his index finger into the exposed hole.  
  
Iori whined more.  
  
“Tight one, eh?” Ayano said.  
  
The masked fellow with the finger in his arse laughed. “Won’t be when we’re done with him”, he said with a voice that sounded far older than what could be seen of him had indicated. He pulled the index finger out, and shoved it and one other finger into Iori’s mouth abruptly. Iori coughed and although there was – much to his surprise – no hint of the taste of faeces, he was at first reluctant, but on an urge, that seemed to come from not his mind but from his body, he began to salivate generously upon them, even going as far as sucking upon them and letting his tongue play with the fingers; and when the masked man thought this was sufficient, he retracted them, trailing ropes of saliva hanging on to them for quite some distance. Iori shook his rear hungrily, and the masked man was not slow to do his deed; two fingers went in with certainty and not an ounce of concern; thereafter he stood above Iori’s buttocks and drooled intentionally a bit – Iori quivered as the warm saliva flowed through the valley of his crack and drizzled down his scrotum from where it followed the length of the shaft of the penis and dripped down upon the floor. Having done this, the masked man smeared the saliva around the buttocks, and inserted thereafter carefully two more fingers with his other hand, from the other side. He then began to pry them apart. He widened and closed the hole a few times in this manner; and Ayano walked to his side and watched the spectacle with excitement. “Gape it, gape it, gape it!” he cried out happily. “Hold it open”, he added. “I want to spit in there.”  
  
He did. Something cold was all he could feel, cold and nebulous it slithered into him, and there he could feel it no more. Like cold diarrhea, but going the wrong way; Iori had a quick flashback of the uncomfortable toilet visit that had begun this entire ( _horrifying_ ) ordeal, that burning sensation that was like something going into him slowly but surely, like eating spicy food with the rear-end. He shuddered and peered over his back, and he saw the fingers being withdrawn from his arse. His rectum closed up.  
  
“It’s so fresh!” Ayano said merrily, “like it’s never been put to good use before! A virgin fruit!” They all laughed. Iori closed his eyes and behind him he heard shuffling and Ayano spitting – but it wasn’t on him. A hand was put behind his head and held it firmly in place, and when he opened his eyes he was greeted by an enormous thick cock protruding from the top of a loosened set of Speedos. The masked man before him pried his reluctant mouth open and inserted it, a faint trace of urine being the most prominent taste thereby provided. It was perhaps not exceptional in terms of length, but its girth was like a can of soda, a monstrously fat cock so huge that no more than the merest tip of the glans would enter his mouth. Iori felt compelled to accommodate it by that odd call that bubbled up now and then from wherever, but no matter how much he tried to open his mouth, it would go no further. His teeth scraped against it, but the masked man seemed to enjoy the stimuli, for he began gently moving his hips rhythmically.  
  
Then he could feel two slimy fingers rub up between his buttocks. He wanted to see what (sick depraved shit) they had planned and were up to, but the prick in his mouth commandeered all his attention; then, the prodding began, and he knew what he was in for. Of course logic had dictated this fact, and he had known well before that this would happen – it would be more shocking if it was absent. But his mind still clung to that feigned resistance with an almost desperate insistence, and when his rectum swallowed the first part of it, he thought it was a toy. Bumpy and uneven it was, he hoped it was just a toy, but the warmth was unmistakeable.  
  
Iori spat out the cock that was trying his mouth and cocked his head to the side and cried out, “You’re going to give me something! Some diseases!”  
Ayano walked up to him and kicked him on the side, the tip of his right boot striking Iori right below the right nipple. The air went out of him, the whine of a deflating balloon. “Shut up!” Ayano commanded. “We’ll give you whatever we want. We’ve only just started.” The cock up his rear went in further, and the pain radiated up his spine like a warm rush of blood, an injection of some illicit substance. He winced.  
  
“Do we have any of those things to keep the mouth open around here?” Ayano asked as he positioned himself before Iori’s face. “He looks a bit too bite-y still.”  
  
Iori saw one of the masked men disappear into a storage room. Then he closed his eyes and tried to think of fluffy clouds and sheep jumping, one sheep, two sheep, a farmer fucks a sheep, and then he was back, and the pain in his rear was no less bad; he must be bleeding, he was sure of it, that burning sensation of warmth, blood gushing everywhere in his imagination; a few thrusts and the man at his rear withdrew, walked on over to his face – and to his surprise there was no sign of blood on that massive prick. Did objects that large fit in there? He would be loose forever. Incontinent and riddled with sexually transmitted diseases from now on! The walls seemed closer, he felt constrained, and then the man who had gone into the storage returned with some plastic contraption fastened to elastic bands that no doubt went around the back of the head.  
  
“Yes!” Ayano said ecstatically, “that’s the one I was thinking of! Put it on, let him clean your dick off; then I want to fuck his face.”  
  
The opening in the thing was as made for a dick. Like a rectum it was round and even, as Marquis de Sade had noted the right shape for penetration; the thing extended into Iori’s mouth almost uncomfortably long (he gagged once while it was inserted and it made him think sporadically about visits at the dentist where roentgen photography was required) and covered up his teeth so he could not chomp down on something inserted. When it had been tied tightly around the back of his head, Ayano looked down on Iori’s face with a great big happy smile and said, “An arse in the back and an arse in the front! I’m tempted to call it perfection!” Then the big cock that had been in his own arse appeared before his face – it reeked, and now he could see its strange shape, the swarthy length covered with strange spots and bumps that were sickening, and at the tip were traces of mucus from his arse, and hints of brown. He felt sick. Then it went in. It tasted next to nothing, but what felt like grains of sand seemed to mix with his saliva, saliva he could not spit out. He had no choice but to swallow. After a while of the thing going in and out of his mouth he got accustomed to the feeling and played with his tongue against the glans as the opportunity presented itself, and the eyes of the masked fellow to whose body the thing was attached rolled with pleasure and satisfaction, the sort of satisfaction you would see in a teacher looking at a favourite student after learning of the latter’s excellence in some exam. A reverent look at an obedient pet.  
  
One of the other masked men suddenly shoved his entire length into Iori’s behind – he could tell it was not the fat cock, no doubt that would have hurt much more – and before him Ayano shoved the wart-cock aside with his hand and presented his own before Iori’, and it was indeed as handsome as when he first had seen it, standing upwards leaning towards the sky, proud and well-shaped, it’s foreskin tight against the shape, a perfectly engineered banana to hold in the hand and draw succulently upon, and Iori gave it a worshipful stare. What a magnificent cock it was! If there was any truth to the nonsense spewed by certain religious fanatics of an “intelligent designer”, then this was the ultimate proof. Drool drizzled out from the hole in the gag, the thirsty drool of a man lost in the desert, the hungry drool of a mindless zombie; Iori was unable to speak, but moaned with senseless lust; and thus it went in, like a pacifier to a baby.  
  
“I want something to suck on,” said Ayano, and the warty thing soon returned into view, this time going into Ayano’s mouth. Ayano was able to take the entire length into his mouth without the slightest hint of gagging, a fact that impressed Iori to the point where he forgot about the cock in his mouth. Ayano slapped his cheek to bring his attention back to where it belonged and was successful, for Iori resumed diligently his servicing of the member. Ayano continued sucking the large warty thing and stroking it with his left hand, and jerked the fat can-sized thing with his right; all the while keeping up with a steady and energetic fucking of Iori’s mouth.  
  
Soon the unseen one at Iori’s rear began pumping furiously and without making a sound seemed to climax with a handful of heavy thrusts, spilling his seed violently within Iori’s insides. When he was done he retracted quickly his cock, and laughed, and Iori soon realised why as he came upon himself urinating on the floor in some kind of involuntary muscular contraction; was that what happened when you struck the prostate?  
  
Ayano was interrupted by this fact and brought his own cock out of Iori’s mouth-gag as well as removing the warty one from his mouth, stood up once more (he had been on his knees) and laughed as well. The other masked men let their thick bellies rumble with the same tune. “He pissed himself!” Ayano said. “I’ve never seen one do that before, not at this early stage!”  
  
“He’s going to be shitting himself before we’re done with him”, the one that had come in his arse added matter-of-factly before following up with more laughter.

 

**7**

  
They stood all around Iori with their wretched smiles, a ring silent with unknown contemplation. The one that had just ejaculated was once more as rigid as ever, the temporary relaxation seeming to have lasted for no more than a minute. “Get up,” said Ayano and helped Iori stand up, his legs felt weak and trembled slightly; at the same time the man with the warty member had positioned himself on the floor, tugging at his angrily red cock. Ayano motioned with his head towards the man on the floor. Iori did as commanded; when standing above he lowered himself down gently, arching his back along the outline of the big man under him; the warty prick pulsated eagerly against Iori’s scrotum where he lay splayed. Drool came out of his mouth via the gag, and soon the man under him had raised him up and was fiddling with his cock in an effort to find the opening. Iori felt some of the other man’s ejaculate dribble out of his hole.  
  
It went in, without any advance warnings; a searing pain flashed white for a moment before Iori’s eyes, but it died down, and soon the rhythmic thrusts had to them a soothing repetitive quality, like the spell of a silent prayer or some begging for mercy at the hands of some supernatural force; and it felt as if his insides would fall out, pulled by the rough texture of the massive cock as it plunged the depths; his whines were muffled by the gag in his mouth, and soon further difficulty was encountered as one of the other faceless characters, the one that had come in his arse, he could recognise from the shape and size of the thing that soon forced its way into his muzzle.  
Ayano guided Iori’s right hand onto the shaft of the fat cock; and Iori began moving it in tune to the rhythm of the fucking; without further ado, Ayano made his way to the front of the scene, where he knelt down and with a great big smile looked up at Iori’s face stuffed with cock; but Iori could not see what was about to happen. Ayano began pushing his own, much smaller, cock into Iori’s rear just next to the humongous warty one; at first it encountered considerable resistance and was close to slipping past the hole on the surface made wet by the mucus seeping out of the hole; but with a trick of his hand Ayano had made it hit the right place, and in it went, right next to the other, who, with Ayano’s length firmly inside, resumed his fucking pace. The entry had drawn some blood from the sphincter as it probed, but all in all the results were very promising. Iori was unable to make a sound. All his feigned resistance had ceased, by now finding himself in trance-like ecstasy.  
  
Ayano and the Wart soon ejaculated in unison, and the man with the cock as fat as a cola-can ejaculated across Iori’s exposed navel and tried with a series of silly moves of his fingers to get the sperm to go down there; meanwhile, the one with the long slender one ejaculated in his mouth. “Swallow,” he said as he did, “swallow it all, and don’t let a drop go to waste.” And somehow, in Iori’s mind at that very moment, the suggestion was potent despite its vulgarity; he swallowed like a man who just came to a waterhole in a vast relentless desert. Down it went, a sticky gloop, a few more swallows and it was all downed; a satisfaction spread throughout Iori’s body.  
  
Ayano and the warty one pulled out at the same time. Ayano gave vent to an exclamation of surprise, and something moved – Iori was sure of that – in the vicinity of his rectum. Living sperm, he thought, and was aroused. His own cock protruded rock hard from under the pleated skirt. The man under Iori moved the latter aside, making sure Iori was on all fours so that no further semen would leak; he then, rather roughly, inserted a big black buttplug to seal the deal.  
  
Ayano, still with a small quantity of ejaculate drivelling from his still somewhat erect penis, made his way over to Iori, who was trying to stand up once more; Ayano pushed down on his shoulders, and Iori sat down on his knees before Ayano’s prick.  
  
“I need to use you,” Ayano said. “Don’t make a mess.”  
  
The cock went into Iori’s mouth, and he closed his lips around it, and soon came the flow of warm piss into his mouth. He began to swallow hurriedly. He was thirsty, obscenely so, and he wanted not to spill anything; down it went, gulp, gulp; soon his stomach was full. When the flow stopped, Iori cleaned the cock with his tongue – which could squeeze a good way through the elastic end of the gag’s fake anal sheath – twisting around, doing spirals across the surface, and then suckled on it for a while, before Ayano withdrew. Iori resisted this, but Ayano held back his head as he tried to follow it. “No, you’ll have to wait a bit for more.” He paused. Then, ripping the gag out of Iori's face, he added: “We have so much more in store for you. Do you want more?”  
  
The question hung in the air like a visitor from far-off planets, bright and full of secrets awkward and mysterious. Iori opened his mouth, revealing his tongue faintly yellow, slobbering almost like a delirious drunkard: “More,” he said, “Fill me to the brim, give me more, more,”; and he got up and started walking towards the three men, who now stood towards one of the walls waiting for further command, but Ayano stopped him and pushed him down on the floor.  
  
Ayano teased Iori’s penis with his pink-gloved hand. It moved at its base, rigid as a ship’s mast. It was at least as long as Ayano’s own, slightly girthier, and curved slightly upwards.  
  
Ayano, in an imitation of what Iori had done previously with another, sat down on Iori’s cock that still held the skirt up like a fleshy pole holding up a curtain; it went in with surprising ease, meeting with little resistance, and moving his hands Ayano called forth the three masked men. Iori couldn’t see much of how Ayano made them do what he wanted them to, but soon one of them sat down just above Iori’s chest and shoved a once more erect cock into his mouth; it was the fat one, and this time it went further into his mouth; he managed to get it in, and he felt a strange pride as he continued to drool and suck on it passionately.  
  
Meanwhile Ayano handled the two others; jerking one with his hand and sucking the other, he changed from one to the other every minute or so; and in this position the orgy continued for a length of time that was indeterminable for Iori. Ayano’s buttocks against Iori’s thighs, sounds of sex, the smell of semen and urine; and at thought of the thick cock in his mouth whose glans he carefully massaged, Iori shot his load inside Ayano, who reached down as he felt that and grabbed hold of Iori’s cock at the base and jerked upwards with his hand to squeeze the juice out of it and into him.  
The fat cock withdrew from Iori’s mouth, and he took a few exhausted breaths.  
  
Ayano kept sucking the other men until they came on his face and in his mouth; his rather pleasantly wide cheeks bore the liquid with something like pride. When they were done, he carefully got up from Iori’s cock, which now hung spent and useless half-hidden by the dishevelled skirt in this forest of throbbing erections, and positioned his rear above Iori’s face. Iori opened his mouth.  
  
And out it came, the white seed flowed out of Ayano’s arse and into Iori’s mouth; a thick white ichor, the love-nectar on which the creature that Iori was gradually transforming into would alone sustain; at the end, with a bubble and a fart, some of the semen was discoloured. Iori swallowed anyway, with singular dedication to the fine rituals in this eerie night practiced. With this done, Ayano turned around, let Iori open his mouth anew, and let the content of his mouth drivel out like cake batter. Iori swallowed that load too.  
  
“Good boy,” Ayano said. “You’re learning many new things, aren’t you?  
  
Learning many new things about yourself and the world, right?”  
  
Iori nodded.  
  
Ayano bent over, grabbed hold of the leash attached to Iori’s choker that was on the floor – but he would not have needed to, it was mostly for show at this point – and Iori followed obediently as Ayano left the room, the three burly men standing against the wall once more, their cocks still erect, and Iori could not help but cast a longing glance at them as he left, even the warty one, and the fat one; such memories. Once again they were in the hallway. Ayano and Iori’s heels clicked against the floor.  
  
There was no longer any doubt in Iori’s mind. He craved cock, and he felt a certainty that this had always been so. As Mr. Kisaragi had said, it was mere denial of the natural urges, all that he had done, his life a charade to fit into the role of societal expectations, the burden of heteronormative culture that weighed down upon his existence and made his life awkward and insincere, a theatre play of dates with ugly unpleasant women, their hideous breasts, and upon this realisation his past actions and feelings and all the notions therewith associated filled him with the utmost disgust, an unutterably vile history, and he wished at once to have a chance to try again as in a video-game, to start over from the start, to embrace the honesty and stand up for what and who he was. He was a cocksucking whore, an impudent pervert with tastes for the most base, the most obscene; he thought of the marvellous cocks he had seen tonight, and as if on cue his own sprouted upwards like a bamboo stalk.

 

**8**

  
The door swung open and revealed on the inside a room with walls painted pitch-black, on the far wall of which were two large mirror-doors and next to those a massive red X with leather straps at each end for fastening. From the ceiling hung other straps and chains over a table, and Iori felt excitement, and he knew that the content already seen in the room was not all; beyond the doors graced by mirrors hung surely more unimaginable implements for sexual play.  
  
At the door was a controller for an electric winch, no doubt used to hoist the straps and chains that hung from the ceiling – Iori could see hints of some sort of spools up there – and as they entered Ayano flipped the light-switch.  
“You must learn to love pain as if it were pleasure,” Ayano said. “To revel in filth, to see things as they are and not shy away from what you see; to not be reluctant, to give in to the desires. Get up on the table.”  
  
Iori lifted a leg and climbed rather clumsily up – it was quite a high table. Ayano followed him up, jumping up with energetic elegance that impressed Iori. Well up, Ayano helped Iori’s legs and arms through the straps and secured a length of chain to the steel suspension above them; as the cold steel touched the exposed parts of Iori’s upper chest he felt suddenly vulnerable, like he had been suddenly teleported to another planet. When legs and arms were in place, a further strap was secured around his torso just below his breasts; when this had been accomplished, Ayano jumped off the table and went over to the controls by the door, and slowly the rattling chains and straps were raised into the air. He struggled to get comfortable in the position which he found himself, but it was in vain; powerless he was as he was suspended above the table.  
  
Ayano flipped the light off and disappeared through the door by which they had entered.  
  
For an indeterminate length of time, Iori hung in the dark, alone with his own thoughts. Was it not the most dreadful thing of all? To be alone, alone with oneself, a disembodied brain drifting through what might as well be the interstellar aether, with only its own deranged musings to keep it company. Was it also not a fact that, deprived of clear sensations, the brain would soon begin filling the blanks, hallucinations and fantasy taking physical form, breaking the barriers between that which is real and that which is not? His mind veered off into uncharted territories, down gravel paths through thick forests misty and mysterious under three gibbous moons; what did he crave, most of all? For a while his sensible thoughts held the forces of the inevitable realisation at bay once more, but soon the woodland was transformed into an ocean white and thick like syrup, and though his mind at first balked at the sight and refused to accept what before him stood, it was clear from the first sight that it was an ocean of sperm.  
  
Through its churning waves, caressed by its dreamy gusts of wind that were like the sensual touch of a human hand upon his cheeks – mayhap Ayano’s gloved hand – burrowed the shapes of enormous pink whales with heads like the glans of cocks and bodies with pulsating veins, long and slender like some evolutionary perfection, a grotesque loveable incarnation of lust and desire, a—  
  
The light was switched on. The door closed, and Iori saw, with some effort from his less than ideal position, that it was Ayano who had returned, carrying with him a large transparent plastic bowl, in which sloshed some clear liquid and some sort of tools or implements.  
  
“There are times of lucidity”, Ayano said. “Where your desires wane and some sort of rationality returns to the foggy mists of your mind. Is that not so?”  
He gave Iori no time to answer (as if that was possible, stuffed as his mouth was by some sort of gag ball now), and instead continued. “I know that it is so. But there will be no such doubt when we are done here. It will take as much time as it has to, but in the end, you will regret nothing, feel no doubt, you will throw yourself before anyone and do all that you can to satisfy them, no matter what, you’ll stop at nothing. That is what we do here, always have done, and we never fail.” Ayano shifted the things that lay in the bowl aside and put them down on the table, where Iori was able to discern the fact that it was some large strange contraption for injecting enema; a small white plastic nozzle that terminated in a white inflatable cuff; next to this was a black air filled sac in the shape of a rubber bulb, probably used to get the right pressure to force the enema in; next to this, on a small branch of sorts, was a further, slightly smaller ball, which Iori deduced no doubt was what inflated the cuff; all of this was furthermore connected in turn to a long transparent hose.  
  
The bowl was below him. “Let’s get this out, first”, Ayano said and took a firm grip around the plug that sealed Iori’s behind. He tugged roughly at it, and soon it gave way; Iori let out some half-suppressed moan and a plop later his rectum felt oddly empty and he found himself struggling to keep the stored semen from dripping out. Ayano wasted no time in taking a hold of the nozzle and inserting it into the hole, which was still slightly agape, and when the small white cuff was within, he began to make it expand and fill the hole well by squeezing repeatedly the rubber ball, which unwittingly brought Iori to think of a stress-ball. Soon the hole was again sealed, and Iori relaxed his sphincter with a garbled sigh. This operation done, Ayano got up on the table and gripped his half-erect prick and closed his eyes. Iori could not see him well from his position, but he heard the urine fill the bowl; glaciers melting, enormous torrents of yellow liquid burrowing their way through the ice and out of holes like earthworms through wet earth, bursting forth; Angel falls, a sheer drop down from a plateau; he felt the faint sprinkling on his exposed buttocks immediately above the bowl as it filled up like a hydroelectric reservoir.  
  
“Hmm”, Ayano said and chuckled, “It was more than I expected. Guess I won’t have to mix it up with extra water. For now.” He squeezed a few more drops out, and then did likewise to the ball which he held in his hand, and though Iori could not see the yellow bubbly liquid travelling through the transparent hose from down in the bowl, he could soon enough feel it; a warm, glowing sensation which soon gave way to sharp stinging and eventually cramping of his bowels. He could feel it fill him up, and his whole body felt warm, feverish; he began to sweat, and Ayano stroked one of his pink-gloved hands across his exposed upper chest and put it to his tongue well within Iori’s view. Iori was confused. What did he think of what he saw? There was no rational answer to the probing question, but there was one answer, one he didn’t know until Ayano grabbed hold of Iori’s perky blood-infused length which forced the dislodged skirt up like a preacher’s tent; surely he must like it then? What was it Ayano had said before, in that hazy past? Words came out of nothingness, in the sweet tone of Ayano’s voice: Cocks don’t lie. It was true, how could it not be? And his cock was hard, rigid, throbbing almost painfully with restricted ecstasy. His belly was swelling. Pain and pleasure became as one. He felt pregnant, possessed with something or other which clouded his thoughts, but down with rational thought, down with coherent contemplation-he drooled through the holes in the gag ball, and Ayano peered into his eyes where he lay, deep and full of- what? He didn’t care. It was love, that was what it was, whatever it was, it was love, a pregnant-with-piss-love and all was well with everything.  
  
Ayano looked happy. “The bowl is empty!” he said, before deflating the cuffs and withdrawing the hose rapidly. Some of the urine mixed with old semen leaked out, and some things less describable, too; but Ayano was a hardened instructor and purveyor of all kinds of filth, and did not mind in the least. Before much more had a chance to leak out, he was there with his own now once more fully erect cock, investigating that opening that gave way easier now than ever before. It was not long before he had gained entrance all the way to the base and Iori felt testicles hit his perineum. Ayano plunged the depths like a Roman pederast with a young voluptuous boy, each extraction carrying with it waste and urine in a small cascade, splashing noxiously back down into the bowl, splattering across the fronts of Ayano’s boots and the part of the black latex stockings immediately above. He pushed down with both hands unforgivingly upon Iori’s belly as his penis charged once more in through the opening, and moaned as the urine leaked out, passing by the sides of his prick.  
  
Ayano withdrew hurriedly then, for otherwise he would soon have spent in those lovely slimy dungeons. He handled the suspension and straps expertly, and had soon repositioned Iori, so that he hung facing upwards with his head above the bowl. Most of the injected content and some additional goodies had evacuated the chambers, and were now mixed up into a most foul-smelling concoction. Iori’s black hair hung in sweaty wisps, and was it only a bit longer it’d have reached down into the gut-churning soup.  
  
Ayano then jerked lazily his own cock and readied for the resumption of its duties. It was slick and angrily red, irritated by the urine and whatever else had swept past in torrents as it did its maintenance work in that sewer, and stuck on it were fragments of muck. When Ayano removed the gag ball from Iori’s mouth there were no complaints, and he hesitated not even the briefest of seconds before taking Ayano’s length entirely in his mouth, and there was no doubt in the determined shifts of his tongue. Like the spinning of a washing machine he handled the cock proficiently.  
  
It was not enough for Ayano, however, who took hold of Iori’s head behind the neck and repositioned it slightly to allow free passage. Then he delved into the depths of that novice oesophagus for the first time, and after three, four stabs, Iori regurgitated a motley mass of half-digested semen, watery and hardly satisfying to the olfactory senses, unless they be those of a mysophiliac, in which case it would rouse all manner of mixed feelings and sexual excitement, which, naturally – given his occupation – was what it did in Ayano. He kept his prick still and in place while Iori vomited in three violent gushes, eventually even emptying himself of what he ate while he suffered through the date with that revolting woman that seemed now like an event in a different universe; and the way the oesophagus contracted around Ayano’s finely shaped organ gave pleasure almost unequalled, and when he withdrew finally and Iori coughed through the upchuck and let some further vomit escape his nose, he was not going to let that mouth rest for long. He plunged in again, and though there was not much left to regurgitate, Iori vomited again; mucus mostly, coughing between the stabs. Ayano became more excited, speeding up the penetrations, now in rapid succession, until he filled Iori’s mouth with thick voluminous spendings, which Iori happily swallowed to fill his otherwise now empty stomach.  
  
Ayano reinserted the enema injector with the inflatable cuff into Iori. The foetid substance that flowed thick and vile with a shimmering oily surface and islands of partly digested poorly chewed food then streamed back up into that sperm receptacle of an arse. The pain was worse this time, more stinging, all the vomit with the stomach acid.

 

**9**

  
Iori woke up in a soft bed. For a while he remembered nothing, but then it came rushing back to him, but not as coherent things, not as comprehensible narratives. It was a series of tableaux illuminated by wall-mounted lamps that turned on and off, a dream-scene in a film where the edges were blurry and the preceding scenes forgotten. He seemed to have lost his sense of time and place, and most of all his sense of self; there was no restraint any more; he’d throw himself before anyone and anything and do whatever was asked, and he wondered nothing of why. He was possessed by that singular thirst, a hedonistic and primal urge that had suddenly been given a voice much stronger than ever before, to the point where it outcompeted any other predators on the savannah. The Savannah was barren now.  
  
After the vomit enema, Ayano had brought in some anonymous men with their faces covered behind white facemasks. They weren’t like the muscular goons; they seemed more ordinary, both young and old, bored with eyes telling of an inner fire fuelled by sadistic perversions. They’d take turns stuffing toys up Iori’s arse, and they played with Ayano too. It seemed expected.  
  
After that, Iori was taken to a big dark room a further level below, down a narrow set of stairs, where the walls were covered with thick black hangings and lit by sinister live candles. It was there he had shewn himself again, Mr. Kisaragi, stepping out from behind a fold of those hangings, like a vampire in some boring old legend. He spoke of the obligations that fell upon a boy in the service of The House, as he called it. “This house,” he had said, Iori recalled, “is a house of worship. We worship pretty young men, and their stout erect pricks, for is that not the end-all and be-all of life itself? The vitality that flows here, it is infinite, it is ancient; it is the beat of the universe and history, the crown-flower of evolution. We never grow old, we never wither away and die, we are the inheritors of the earth. The cockroaches are nothing to us. If you stay with us, you’ll know more than anyone else ever will. And don’t forget that cocks don’t ever tell a lie.” He had touched Iori then, but it was not a sexual touch, it was just the brief touch of his long elegant finger across Iori’s cheek, a cold finger that simultaneously felt possessed with the most singular heat. It almost made Iori recoil with fear of a burn. He looked into Mr. Kisaragi’s deep thoughtful eyes with their strange fluttering variations in colour. Yellow, green and deep ocean azure in one place, then the other, moving, mesmerising. Brown, grey, everything at once and then, some other colour, something words cannot dress, something the mind recalls as impossible because it’s not at all a colour of this world. A vibrating otherness that reaches out for you, Iori thought at the time, and his own response was to embrace it, to peer into those eyes and see the sunset of a barren stony cliff-side fifty-six thousand years hence. Kiss me, he thought, and when Mr. Kisaragi turned to leave the room, he threw himself on the floor and cried out to him, “My Lord!”  
  
And Mr. Kisaragi just smiled and nodded, moved his hand in some peculiar way of giving a good-bye salutation, and he was gone.

 

**10**

  
Lights were turning on one by one in the many buildings, like stars forming in a new-born universe, eddying through the vast colourless and unchallenged voids. Seijyu left the wide boulevard where against black steel railings grew lean green hedges, and onto that narrow one-way road, more like an alley, that was one of the approaches of the revered Cocksucking Male Maid’s Café, he set foot. It was Wednesday. He usually visited every Monday and Thursday, but he had been contacted by that most spectacularly handsome overseer, Mr. Kisaragi, and told to swing by, and after receiving disheartening news at work regarding his future employment, there was really no doubt in his mind whether a visit was warranted. An hour or two, or more, away from the awful churn of prosaic everyday life, the boring almost painful rituals, that unending barrage of scheduled appointments and structured time… The thought of it all almost made him nauseous.  
  
 When he had but a few buildings left to walk, his mobile phone began to ring. “Fuck is it now,” he said to himself with a heavy dose of disdain for whoever interrupted his sacred travels at this hour. He turned to the side, stopping against the tiled façade of some building concealed behind the vile clutter of advertisements that looked more like graffiti. A cigarette vending machine was turned on its side just by, and empty packets lay strewn about, and he thought for a few seconds of Iori. That face just popped up before his eyes before everything normalised.  
  
He flipped up the mobile phone. It simply shewed the number, so it was not someone in his address book. Someone unknown, then, he thought.  He had Mr. Kisaragi in there, so it wasn’t him… unless he had gotten a new number. He put the telephone to his ear.  
  
“Yes, hello…” he began, but he didn’t have time to say more before the shrill and irritated voice of an older woman came through the aether.  
  
“Yes, yes, all good and well, whatever you say, but why are you so hard to get hold of?”  
  
“Who is this?”  
  
“Oh, don’t give me that. You don’t recognise my voice? We’ve met before. I tried calling your home telephone, but there was no answer. It was a pain to find this number. Had to call one of those directories where you have to pay a fortune for them to look it up—“  
  
He recognised the voice now. It was Iori’s mother. 72 years old, energetic and as hostile as any delinquent youth. The last time he met her was… two years ago, when she came over to Iori’s house while they were having a barbeque, and immediately began bossing everyone present around. She radiated some sort of natural authority, so that it seemed natural for everyone to obey her.  
“Why in such an urgency to reach me?” he pried.  
  
“Iori’s not returned from that date he had this Monday. His sister is worried, and even I am beginning to get a bit concerned. His sister had arranged it all, you see, and apparently the girl was none too happy with it all; he had broken it off with some excuse involving bowel troubles. Either way, what I need to know is, have you seen him?”  
  
“I haven’t heard of him for the last two weeks”, he replied in earnest.  
She was silent for a while, thinking. “Well, if you see him or hear from him, please let me know, just to be sure, if he doesn’t let us know. Maybe he’s off on some drinking binge, you never know.”  
  
“I will”, he said. Then added, “Good luck finding him.”  
  
She said a few thanks, in the same angry tone as always, and hung up.  
Seijyu resumed his way to the Café.

 

**11**

  
Mr. Kisaragi was sitting at a table in a far corner of the café main room, next to the counter upon which waited teasingly rows of fresh pastries with white foamy frostings. Upon walking in, Seijyu became aware that there were only two patrons present, anonymous men serviced with fervour by boys hidden under the table cloths; and Mr. Kisaragi was seated far from any others. Their eyes met, and Seijyu tried to look away, but was soon drawn back by that irresistible gravity which Kisaragi possessed. A playful glint glimmered in those glorious deep eyes whose exact hue escaped his perception.  
  
Mr. Kisaragi looked pleased but reserved as Seijyu sat down opposite him at the table, with his back facing the rest of the room. A stereo somewhere behind the counter played sombre tranquil tones, rain falling on a carp pond, autumnal flowers rotting, conjuring the smell of musty decomposition and wet muddy earth. It played to cover or provide a distraction from the indulgent slurping and intermittent moans, and Seijyu was overcome with a brief sleepy spell; the pleasantries of falling asleep in the wet cold autumn woods… Frozen during the night, like a poor homeless man. He was likely to be one soon, anyway. Maybe Iori would regret his rejection, then, those ill-mannered attempts of his to avoid the truth whenever Seijyu had hinted at it. But the hazy clouds soon drifted aside, revealing the majestic peak of Mr. Kisaragi’s head where he sat, his fingers grappling an elegant glittering wine-glass. There was no wine in it, just some pellucid liquid, thicker than water. Who knew what a man of such refinement consumed?  
  
“I’ve been waiting,” said Mr. Kisaragi curtly, and turned indifference into a wide smile.  
  
“What…,” Seijyu began, but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth; it stumbled on the words. What could he say that wouldn’t sound imbecilic? “What was it you wanted?” he finally managed. Short, empty, non-descript, yet enough to take the conversation wherever it was going.  
  
Mr. Kisaragi licked his lips hungrily. “There’s an opening available.”  
  
“Table boy?” Seijyu replied, slightly uneasy, with his eyes wandering over the tasteful furniture.  
  
“No,” continued Kisaragi, “I understand that is not quite your forte. This is something that you’d like a great deal. This is more delicate work, important duties. I can offer you the position of slave-trainer in our fine dungeons.”  
Seijyu swallowed as he heard the words, the magical words, uttered.  
  
“There’s no need for you to decide immediately, of course,” Mr. Kisaragi said, “but we have something prepared for you, merely as a token of trust from my side. It’s a great surprise.” Mr. Kisaragi stood up, and brushed swiftly some hair out of his eye; and when he towered there, from his thick-heeled platform boots to the spectacular striking red plumage of the hair via the shiny tight-laced corset, the elbow-length latex gloves and the shorts that hugged his skin so tightly and revealed the shape of that tremendous member, below which stretched the garters connected to the leggings whose bottoms were flared before they ended just above the shoes, it all became as one great big vision, the sort that a lonely man in the great big desert might have after days without food or water; a hallucination of some ethereal power beyond the prosaic, of existence on a plane beyond the mundane human. Mr. Kisaragi towered then like a God, all-powerful and majestic like nothing else, and Seijyu knew forthwith that he would take him up on his most generous offer; for to do anything else was insanity.  
  
  
  
  
Down long dimly lit corridors Seijyu followed the lead of Mr. Kisaragi; their steps echoed between the concrete walls through which at times were heard non-descript yelps and muffled screams, the whining of whips almost like flutes, rising now and then to a blasphemous crescendo accompanied by base sexual sounds. Under a red lamp set high on a wall stood a man wearing all-black with his face hidden behind an eerie white mask, guarding as it were an enormous heavy door, which Mr. Kisaragi skilfully unlocked and opened.  
“This is the changing room”, Mr. Kisaragi said and made a swoop with his hand, completing as he did an elegant pirouette, or something of the like. “You can freely pick and choose your attire here. We get regular new deliveries of outfits from… say; have you ever read Rubber Garden Monthly?”  
Seijyu shook his head.  
  
“They provide plenty of designs and supplies. You could make special orders with them, if you like, too, if there’s any particular design you’d like to see realised. Occasionally they provide some other assistance; we’ve had a few boys from over there work a few shifts here.” He smiled. “Well, pick out anything you like, and proceed through that door over there,” he pointed, “and take the first door on the right. Will you remember that?”  
  
“Yes,” Seijyu said. A bit overwhelmed by it all. The room was narrow and deep, down along the centre was a narrow bench and by the long walls were lockers, interrupted by a door to a bathroom and another to a large walk-in closet with the door ajar.  
  
“Most outfits are in there, you can browse through them. And remember,” Mr. Kisaragi was smiling even wider now, “the first door on the right. I have to be off; I’ve got some things to tend to on the upper floors.” He turned around at the door for a brief gaze back. “We’ll talk later about the employment prospects.”  
  
The door swung shut as Mr. Kisaragi left. By himself, Seijyu looked around for a while, making sure he had perceived the surroundings accurately. This done, he entered, a bit reluctantly, the walk-in closet, fearing that at any moment someone would rush in and say they had him on camera or some similar sinister plot. But, he realised, none of that mattered any more. It was all in the past. His life before this moment was nothing but a stacked mess of regrettable things. It was a road he had long walked, an immense set of stone steps leading up to an uncanny temple wherein dwelt Mr. Kisaragi like some ancient and endlessly wise monk, moving to and fro on various missions that would be hard to grasp for the uninitiated, endlessly complex scheming as the ultimate world-betterment. Wise beyond his years – how old was he, anyway? – he sat up there in the high temple in the clouds, and it was to join the ranks of his followers he was meant for; Seijyu realised he had taken the first step many a year ago, when sixteen years old he had first touched another man’s prick; and now he was at the top of it all, looking back down along those limitless steps across which floated thick wisps of clouds. At the edges of the steps stood what looked like miniature cherry-trees that at this eerie height were in perpetual bloom in planters. The wind caressed them gently, a lover’s fine strokes.  
  
He looked through the racks. Corsets, complex suits, dresses large and small, catsuits, straps, accessories of imaginable and unimaginable kinds; on the floor, boots and shoes with high heels and a handful of others without, gloves; and in the ecstasy that these wondrous impressions gave birth to, all other worries seemed to vanish as if despatched by a silent deadly heat-ray.

 

  **12**

  
He had picked something. He had stood there for far too long, looking at the assembled costumes, and yet felt uncertain of which he wanted to wear. Their surfaces shiny and polished, reflecting the fluorescent lights in the ceiling above; his eyes had studied their smoothness, followed their graceful lines and sleek designs, across buckles on straps, but he had just been unable to pick any one. So he closed his eyes and took whatever first found itself in his hands: and he was overcome with a slight relief when he saw it was a one-piece dress, as it saved him further indecision. It was a big shiny affair, the lacquer of the PVC was fresh; he proceeded to quickly – hoping no one would see him on some half-unconscious level, but in reality minding little – undress. The dress had a choker, that was closed by a buckle at the front, which was then linked by way of four straps, two on each side which crossed each other on their way to the frilly upper parts of the dress proper; this being at a level just below the shoulders, and linked by further straps to gloves into which he fitted his arms. Below this followed a corset section, the corset being an integral part of the dress and tied at the front, open now; below the corset, the dress flowed straight and flat, and had a split plain shiny skirt.  
He took a pair of boots from the many found under the clothes, a dark purple pair reaching up to his thighs that he put on after he had donned the dress and adjusted it slightly. When he was done, with his old clothes sealed in one of the lockers (of security he thought little, excited as he was; already his prick was trying to force its way through the fabric of the skirt, to no avail) he made his way out into the corridor; and he looked on his right for the door which Mr. Kisaragi had mentioned, and soon found it.  
  
Seijyu’s gloved hand closed around the handle and moved it downwards, opening the door. And the sight that it offered! He was immediately pleased with the surprise. Straight ahead, with posterior inclined slightly up and the arms and head hidden behind a black plastic screen to which they looked almost fused into one. Looking closer, he saw it worked as stocks, and some chain rattled as whoever the beautiful bottom before him belonged to moved excitedly with expectation.  
  
Seijyu entered and closed the door behind him. The room was small, maybe three metres across, and there was not much spare space on either side of the double-wide bed. On the walls were shelves whereon clamoured for space various sexual tools, toys and aides; some were closed cabinets which undoubtedly contained more of the same. The bottom before him, which was exposed as the skirt on the wearer had been pulled up on the top, was spectacular, well-shaped, just the right amount of flesh and fat in perfect balance, yin and yang; below, an erection stood proudly, as though it had not a worry in the world, like a lone predator in a lake which every morning is filled with game fish.  
  
Seijyu surveyed the shelves, and his eyes quickly stopped at a large red multi-tailed whip with a robust rubbery handle, which he reached for and took hold of. He then weighed it playfully in his hands, swinging it indolently just to see how long it reached; as to get a feel for the physics involved. When satisfied, he swung it against the beautiful buttocks, and the whips whined in the air like World War II dive bombers and left red caterpillar tracks over those firm desert-pale arse-dunes.   
  
There was a muffled moan of pleasure and pain mixed up into one; and it was familiar, very familiar; and so, with his curiosity thereby roused, he ventured past the black screen. What greeted him on the other side was a head of beautiful black hair, teased and put in two bunches, and a pleasant well-proportioned face with boisterous regal features; big brown eyes so full of cockthirst it was beyond telling. The surprise became even greater when he realised just who it was that was fastened before him; it wasn’t just any beautiful boy he had at his disposal; it was Iori!  
  
This was a dream come true. Iori, whom he had felt so great a love for, years and years of senseless longing and persistent rejection; handsome, alluring and exquisitely entertaining Iori who for all those years of Seijyu’s half-arsed approaches had looked at him with awkward annoyance and declared that he was not gay; here he was, in Mr. Kisaragi’s dungeons, with his arse held high, with eyes burning with the fire of a thirst that could be satisfied only with cock and semen; with a radioactive-green ball-gag lodged in his mouth, with drool seeping out through the little breathing holes in it—  
  
“Iori!” Seijyu exclaimed finally. “What on earth are you doing here?”  
  
Iori spoke something, or rather, tried to, but it made no sense, not with that quite sizeable gag-ball on his mouth. It was not lost on Seijyu that this had been the present Mr. Kisaragi had spoken of. He was not even unsettled by the eerie knowledge which Mr. Kisaragi must have possessed to have been able to offer this banquet of delicious flesh, and instead brought out his prick from under the dress and frigging it slowly, massaging it with spittle in his gloved hand, he went back behind the black screen and got up on the bed, almost bouncing of it with eager steps. He leaned down against the black screen, holding his left hand against it, and with his right hand gained on behalf of his eager swollen prick entry to Iori’s temple; that solemn garden whose evergreen pastures had been denied him countless times before.  
Like the pistons of an angrily working steam engine he began to thrust into Iori, who moaned with ecstatic pleasure that was quite unlike anything Seijyu had seen before. The sphincter fit snugly around his prick and provided just the right amount and kind of friction; there was no need for additional lubrication, and Iori did not seem to mind at all.  
  
He fucked away: plugged it into the socket, took temperature, and checked the oil; thrust, thrust; in-out; batteries in their slots; until he felt the wave of orgasm beckon in his groin, radiating like a sacred epiphany through his body, an electric charge, a nuclear meltdown of pleasure—  
  
And then, he came, and the world fell silent. He heard the whirr of the ventilation equipment, a door slamming further down in the dim concrete corridor. He saw in his head Iori’s face, happy, content, satisfied at last; now that their union had been consecrated, they must never again be apart.  
  
 _What happens here_ , he thought, _is for ever._

 

  **13**

  
Seijyu removed the ball-gag from Iori’s mouth. Iori coughed and spat. Some come was still left in his mouth from an earlier session, but had merged with the saliva.  
  
“Did you like it?” Seijyu asked. “I’ve always wanted to fuck you, you know that.”  
  
Something flashed through Iori’s head. “He put something in me,” he finally managed to lamely say. But it sounded silly. Could that thing really affect the thoughts, too? It wasn’t just the urge, not any more, not only that animalistic and primal need for cockjuice; it was something more well-articulated, a thought that was clear and certain; all of this, what had transpired in the dungeons, the fucking, the toys, being chained up and all of it: he liked it, enjoyed it on a deeper plane, beyond merely satisfying that hunger, that thirst.  
  
Iori coughed again. “He put something in me, something that changed me…” Seijyu’s face was pure disbelief, and a hint of general disinterest. “It’s true! It changed me…”  
  
Seijyu pouted. “How did you end up here in the first place?”  
  
“I can—“ Iori began, paused and flushed red with embarrassment. “I can ask you the same question, can’t I?”  
  
“It’s no secret that I come here now and then,” Seijyu replied bluntly. “What about you?”  
  
“It’s… coming… out…” Iori whimpered.  
  
“What is?” Seijyu asked, but there was no answer. Iori’s eyes rolled in his sockets. Then Seijyu caught a glimpse of something moving on the other side of the black screen, something purple and wet, like a thick squid tentacle squirming spasmodically; and he took a few steps to get a closer look. It had a segmented body, its bottom was yellow, and something stuck to it, little strands of mucus, as it contracted and relaxed itself rhythmically, moving slowly out of Iori’s arse. It had no discernible head, no appendages, it was like a larva, fat and heavily it slipped out and fell from Iori’s bum onto his shiny black boots, thrashing and heaving itself to the floor, landing with a wet splat.  
  
Seijyu saw the peculiar thing. He had seen such a thing before, in this very same building within whose walls he now was; it had been sitting aimlessly on the ceiling the first time he had met Mr. Kisaragi some four odd years before, and Kisaragi had shared with him the nature of that little critter. It was, Mr. Kisaragi told, not from this earth at all, but from somewhere else, just where exactly he did not know; but the thing, once introduced to a male human’s digestive tract, would create in that ‘victim’ – Mr. Kisaragi had said that with a gleeful smile and sarcastic intonation – an unquenchable thirst for semen. Now that same thing scurried away on the floor, vanishing through a little aperture next to the door, two centimetres in height, as if made just for things like that to roam about freely.  
  
“Wh—what was that… thing?”  
  
Seijyu regretted not having run after and captured the thing. But it was too late.  
  
“Nothing,” Seijyu said. “It was just you imagining things.”  
  
“But… I felt it, it came out of my arse, didn’t it?... came out… moving…” Iori’s voice trailed off.  
  
“It’s gone now, whatever it was,” Seijyu said. “We’re all alone.” He went back to Iori, and loosened the chains and the latch that secured it in place. As Iori was freed, he rolled away from the screen, onto the soft fabric of the bed, letting his boot-clad feet fall onto the floor. He peered into the ceiling. Many emotions were bubbling up from within him, something warm and fuzzy, like a winter by a fireplace, the flicker of orange flames cast in the muted light of the room; he felt it bellow up from unseen depths, filling his chest with something he could not quite describe, something big, strong, like a possession; as if that creature, whatever it had been, was back inside of him. Seijyu stood above him, with his hand by his mouth, peering down; his teased hair a wondrous frame, appearing like an aureole against the backdrop of the room’s red-tinged wall-mounted lights.  
  
“I want...” Iori tried to speak. His voice was weak. “Want... your cock.”  
  
Seijyu was already hard again, so he did as asked of him; he brought out his length from under the skirt, and Iori, who lay on his back on the bed, took it in his mouth as it was offered. The thing was in him no more, but it was clear to himself that something had been permanently changed within him; or rather, not changed, but unleashed; barriers had been blown, dams ruined; now the river flowed as it had always been intended to, free; the rapids roared. He sucked as diligently as ever, thirsting, hungering for that sweet-sour nectar; and Iori’s own prick stood like a ship’s mast, swaying with his accelerated heartbeat.  
  
Seijyu repositioned himself, moving forwards a bit, so that with his prick still lodged within the silken embrace of Iori’s mouth he got onto the bed and could offer the attention which Iori himself demanded. Locked in mutual fellatio they sucked frenziedly till they both had come; and Seijyu rolled to the side, and lay next to Iori, facing the ceiling.  
  
“I have dreamed of this for so long,” Seijyu said, “but never did I expect it to ever become real. Things that good, I always thought, would never happen to me. It would always remain an elusive dream, and that any hopes I had that you didn’t really like the women you tried to fraternise with were surely my own folly. I dreamt of this... again and again...” He peered into one of the reddish lamps. The whirr of the ventilation, again; otherwise: silence.  
  
“It was all true,” Iori said, “it was all true, I was just denying it, all along; I wanted to be normal, you know, what they expect of you; they, the outside world, the normative society. It was all lies. I have seen another world. I love cock; I can’t stand what I have done until now, and... I love you, Seijyu.” He reached with a hand over across Seijyu’s chest towards his further shoulder, leaned up and over him, and then their faces were upon each other. Nose to nose they peered with dreamy gazes into each other’s ocean-deep eyes; deep brown colour like the Amazon River. Then their hands interlocked robustly; their perked lips met, parted, opened; their tongues played like mating fish, swirling, porpoising; saliva exchanged, receiving, unloading. Iori reached his arms behind Seijyu’s back and squeezed hard, and as their tongues let go and their mouths split, he fell to Seijyu’s side.  
  
“Let it never end,” Iori said dreamily. “ _Never_...”  
  
END.


End file.
